A/N:This is the drabble I never wrote before but the idea inspired the plot for my fic Witched. (This one-shot is in no way related to that fic however, like, at all. I just had a burst of inspiration last night to write it. Fair warning: it's probably trash.)
This fic takes place before the whole parents kidnapped/ritual sacrifice thing of 3A. keep that in mind ;)
Lydia's eyes fly open. Her bedroom is dark, just as dark as it was when she fell into it hours ago.
She's struggling to figure out why she woke up when she hears someone stir beside her. Did she bring someone home last night? That would be strange, it was a school night and she'd been exhausted after an evening of research into the whole Darach business; but still not impossible-
She turns and it's Stiles, blinking blearily at her from his side of her bed.
She stares at him. He stares right back.
She looks down at her fingers. Six on each hand, if she really focuses and counts them. So unless she suddenly acquired polydactyly, she is definitely dreaming.
It's a relief and for some reason, a disappointment. She can't believe her mind is betraying her. She's dreaming about Stiles for god's sake.
"Stiles," she says to him sternly, "what are you doing in my dream?"
He blinks and then shrugs a little, leaning back on his elbows to watch her with sleepy eyes. His mouth ticks up mischievously. "It's your dream," he replies. "What do you want me to do?" He waggles his eyebrows like a fucking idiot.
And yet she's suddenly far too aware of the way his cotton shirt stretches across his broad chest, the bed-hair so rumpled from sleep, the muscles of his forearms from where they're resting across her (their?) pillows. "I want you to leave," she hisses, turning away abruptly when she feels an unwelcome fluttering sensation in her chest. "Go. Poof. Don't exist here."
She can practically hear the pout in his voice. "Aw Lydia, don't be like that," he whines, and suddenly his arm is snagging her around the middle and she's unprepared for this so she lets him pull her on top of him, so that she's straddling him, and suddenly she doesn't know what to do with herself at all.
Her hands have automatically reached for balance, settling on his chest, and her legs are on either side of his torso. He's smiling lazily up at her, his own large hands ghosting up her sides.
She's shocked at how right it feels, how solid his weight feels beneath her, how nice his long fingers dancing on the edge of her night shirt, how his smile is making her feel warmer than it really should.
When she doesn't move, he seems to take that as encouragement; in one sudden move, he's flipped them over, and now it's Lydia underneath and him straddling her on top, with one forearm braced at the side of her head and the other trailing down her outer thigh.
To distract herself from the sudden and unwelcome sparks his fingers are leaving, she says, "I'm dreaming."
He leans down and begins nuzzling at her neck. "That you are." He sounds amused.
"I'm dreaming about Stiles in my bed," she elaborates.
His nose rubs against her cheek, and- is he just rubbing his face against against hers like a fucking cat? That should not be as hot as it is. She tries to turn her head away, but then he just buries his nose even deeper into where her neck meets her shoulder, his hands sliding up and under her shirt just slightly. "Also true," he says, and the sound is muffled.
She wishes the window was open all of a sudden. "I'm fantasizing about Stiles Stilinski." She tries to sound disgusted, but it comes out a little more breathless than intended.
His hands, now on the skin of her hips, are sliding up slowly, inch by inch, and it's driving her mad. He finally moves from her shoulder where he's been nudging at and looks her in the eye. His whisky-coloured eyes are bright, even though there's almost no light streaming from the window. "Exactly," he says with a little, sideways grin. "Know what the best thing about a fantasy is, Lyds?"
She shivers a little at the way the nickname falls from his mouth, playful and casual and loving and a little sinful.
"You get to do whatever you want with me," he answers for her in a whisper, and then he's leaning in and he's kissing her, and the way he kisses her isn't tentative at all like she might expect. No, he kisses her like he knows exactly what he's doing, like he's kissed her a thousand times before. He gets right to it. One of his hands is tracing the underside of her breast and the other has since disappeared and finds itself tangled in her hair like that's home, and he's nudging gently at her lips with his tongue until she can't help but open up and yeah, this isn't so bad.
She starts getting into it herself, letting her one hand thread itself through his hair and tilt his head so she can access his mouth properly. And when she runs her other hand down his back, dragging with her fingernails, he makes this little mewly sound and arches his spine, so their torsos are flush against each other.
His lips are full and soft and just the right mix of patient and intentful on hers. Now his hand that was on her breast is traveling down and slipping under the waist of her pants and she's nearly panting against his mouth in anticipation. God, this may be the hottest kiss she's ever experienced and she's just making it up-
Her alarm goes off.
They break apart, breathing heavily. The room flickers from dark to light and back.
Stiles groans and leans his forehead against hers as the alarm continues to blare distantly in the background. "You couldn't set your alarm for ten minutes later?" he whines, like he's been looking forward to getting her off. It doesn't help matters down there.
When she doesn't provide an answer, he sighs heavily and sets one last brief, chaste kiss against her lips. "Well, good morning," he says, winking cheesily, and then he's gone, and Lydia Martin is sitting up in bed with flushed cheeks and an ache between her legs and the morning sun is winking at her through the window like it knows exactly what was going on in her head.
"Shut up," she grumbles at it, and gets out of bed to yank the blinds shut. The room darkens instantly, but she's still breathing unsteadily. Who knew fantasizing about Stiles could be so…
Hot, her brain supplies; Amazing.
She shuts that whole thought process down before it can go anywhere, and wanders into her washroom to get ready for school.
When she gets to class and sees him, she tries her best to act normal. And yet, she can't help but think that Stiles' eyes linger on her a little too long when he walks into Ms. Blake's class, and the way he flushes and looks away when she catches him is a little more spastic than usual, and the look in his eyes when they lock gazes again later, talking about something entirely mundane, entirely mirrors how she thinks she's looking at him.
It's puzzling, to say the least.
What if we had the same dream? her brain supplies as a question out of the blue. Almost immediately Lydia shakes herself and laughs at just the thought of the concept. She and Stiles sharing dreams? Now that's the most ridiculous thing she's ever heard herself think. Like, really.
It's not like they have a mental connection or something.
A/N: I'm sorely tempted to write a Stiles POV to this; we'll see if that pans out.
I'm arrowcave on tumblr and you should totally leave a review ;)))))) *winks at you* *does finger guns while walking away backwards* *trips on the trashcan i normally reside in and falls back inside head first*
EDIT 10/23/2015: Second part is happening. it'll be more of a continuation. Stay tuned ;)